chewing on a conversation i had recently with a rogue ophthalmologist. blue field entoptic phenomenon. phosphenes. closed-eye visualisations from my time in the isolation tanks and all that glorious sensory deprivation. y’know, what you don’t see till it’s pointed out to you, what you create when presented with nothing.
it’s all noise, of various form and shape, order and disorder.
so let’s say this is kinda music. let’s say this is kinda minimalist machine music. let’s say this is kinda playfully (mis)calculated minimalist machine music.
something’s happening and nothing’s happening. and i think about how often we see(k) patterns in things. unconnections.
so let’s say this is song, fixated, monomaniacal, singular. a set sine that’s neither pattern nor complex but feels like motion (there is no motion) like the churn of seasick legs on dry land.
too violent to relax, too disruptive to concentrate, too fun to reflect, and
unexpected synchronicities. the thing sings with appliance drone, a lazy frantic background hum. bursts of note, voice, klank, song.
sometimes sand shifts underfoot. listening in peripheral and things creep in at the edge of consciousness as i walk work cycle stare sleep digest read write play dream.
semi-pointillist repetition repetition repetition. the chirality of the same, but not identical. asymmetrical diversions. arrhythmic (there is no rhythm).
there’s colour. there’s monochrome. it’s fleeting. i lay down. close eyes. and things blossom, eventually. real or imagined, patterns, fractals, light, black. you stare at static and the static stares back.